Caught on beartrapteeth in the territories of our own maps. It seems we've got a traitor in our own falling numbers. Must have been hiding in the basements so clandestine (we thought). Keep your eyes peeled. Backs to the trees and bellys to the dirt and leaves.

Counting.
Counting.
Counting them as they fall.

Turning green to red to orange to yellow and finally brown, decaying on the ground. Curling and withering and shriveling.

Plucking toenails and teeth like petals off of flowers. Necklaces of claw and fang; show your pride. Leave the bullets in our stomachs and the knives in our backs. Face down in the mud and ash and swamps and grass.

We never saw the shadows,
as hard as we tried.
We never saw the shadows,
even as we died.